


long last we meet

by songs



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6216073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songs/pseuds/songs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well,” Oikawa starts. “There were two boys, who grew up together. Best friends, companions, whatever you may call them. Their names got lost in history, but their story dwelled on. When the boys were still young, one of them was spirited away in the forest, and vanished for three days and three nights. When he returned, he was drained of all his health and fortitude. But the other boy, his best friend, still remained by his side.”</p><p>“A love story,” Hajime says.</p><p>“A love story,” Oikawa affirms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	long last we meet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



**i.**

**_the first life_ **

**_heian period, japan_ ** _._

-

-

_(Let me see him,_ Hajime begs _, I’ll do anything, just let me see him._

The villagers shake their heads. _What a foolish child. Ready to risk everything for a single boy. Does he not know the gods he is defying? Does he not care?_

_Anything,_ Hajime promises, _I’ll do anything.)_

-

-

 

Hajime’s mother doesn’t like him visiting Tooru. No one does.

 

Oikawa Tooru is eleven years old when he becomes Miyama’s resident, living ghost. _A starry boy, once full of promise,_ the villagers would muse. _He had a rich future ahead, how sad, how unfortunate. The gods can be so very cruel._

No one knows how it happens. One morning, Tooru is bright and awake, lively as he scampers off into the woods, prepping for a day of adventure and work. Then he’s gone. He vanishes, without a trace, for three days: _spirited away,_ the town reckons. _Stolen from this world._

Only, not.

 

He returns a shadow of himself. Frail and bone-white. He limps back to the village pitifully, stumbling over dirt and rice paddies. His mother weeps when she finds him, thanking the gods over and over, unknowing of the fact that someday she would curse them.

 

Tooru does not return the same as he left. _That poor boy, fallen prey to some remote, bog-illness. Demon-sickness. Bane, burden._ His mother collects him in her arms; a week later, the Oikawa family moves closer to the outskirts of town, away from the public scrutiny. Tooru has been bedridden ever since.

 

Hajime does not like gossip. He thinks the townsfolk too superstitious, the elders too stubborn and hateful. Oikawa Tooru has been his best friend since birth— they grew up together, netting dung-beetles and sharing games and secrets.

 

Tooru isn’t a bad thing. So Hajime sneaks out to meet him, in the early crescents of morning. When he makes it to the Oikawa home, he toes off his sandals and slips in through the front, sliding door. Tooru’s mother greets him from the kitchen with a grave nod. He bows in respect, before padding along the tatami-mats to Tooru’s room.

 

Inside, Tooru is perched up on his futon, quilts splayed about him. His eyes are glazed, but when he spots Hajime, they clear up, just a smear.

 

“Iwa-chan,” he greets, brightly.

 

“Yo.” Hajime salutes, before situating himself beside Tooru. He pulls out a small, ribboned sack from his sleeve; Tooru’s eyes follow it curiously.

 

“This is some persimmon tea my mom made,” Hajime explains. “I know you like it, so I brought some.”

 

“From the tree in your garden,” Tooru muses quietly. “The one we used to climb in.”

 

“…Yes,” Hajime tells him. “That’s the one.”

 

Tooru takes the bag of tea with a reverent touch that Hajime still cannot get used to. His eyelashes tangle into each other when he blinks long and hard and says, “Thanks.”

 

“’S nothing,” Hajime says gruffly, face flushed. His voice takes on a different quality, when he goes on, “Say, Tooru…”

 

“Mm?”

 

“You can tell me,” he murmurs. “About what happened in the summer. I won’t get mad if you did something bad.”

 

“You’re always mad, though,” Tooru says, too lightly. “And I didn’t do anything bad.”

 

 _Then why did this happen to you?_ Hajime bites it back. He’s held it all in for weeks, now, since his best friend transformed into something fragile and bed-sick, something so unlike the stirring, boundless soul that’s held beneath.

 

“The gods aren’t evil,” Hajime finds himself saying. “We can try to fix this. You can be like before. We can go out and you don’t have to be cooped up in here, all the time.”

 

Tooru’s expression shifts. “Oh? You want me _fixed?_ Am I so awful this way, Iwa-chan?”

 

Hajime sputters. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.” He clenches his teeth. “You don’t want to be here forever. I would… I _can_ visit you forever, because I _want_ to. But you don’t want to be stuck. Not here, not _anywhere_.”

 

“There are worse things,” Tooru mutters, and Hajime expects the conversation to end, then and there. But then Tooru turns to face Hajime completely. His eyes are big and owlish, and his bottom lip is quivering.

 

“Too—”

 

Tooru cuts him off. In a stilted tone, he asks, “Do you remember, Iwa-chan? How we used to explore the woods, searching for _The Seeing Lake?_ ”

 

Hajime nods, slightly taken aback. “We never could find it.”

 

“I,” Tooru starts, then stops. He swallows shakily, before finishing: “I did. Find it, I mean. When I disappeared.”

 

Hajime goes stiff. “What…” He breathes in. “What did you see?”

 

“Us,” Tooru answers. “I saw us.”

 

“And?”

 

“You,” Tooru says, with no inflection, “were dead, Iwa-chan. And I was screaming.”

 

Hajime feels numb. “Tooru,” he says. “You— you _didn’t_.”

 

“I know,” Tooru mumbles. “That the myth says you can’t disrupt the _Seeing Lake._ It’s a vision from the gods, after all. But I was so angry. Iwa-chan, I was so scared. I tried to blur the image from the water, tried to get rid of it. But I fell in, instead. I didn’t think I’d come out.”

 

“What did you _do?”_ Hajime’s voice is gentle steel. “What did you _do,_ Tooru? Idiotkawa!”

 

“I didn’t do a bad thing,” Tooru says, a breath above a sob. “I didn’t do a bad thing. _I didn’t_.”

 

_-_

_“I only wanted us to be together.”_

_-_

(“I know, Tooru,” Hajime says, once he falls asleep. “I know.”)

 

-

“I won’t let him die,” Hajime promises Tooru’s mother. He shuts the creaking door to Tooru’s bedroom, so he won’t wake. “I swear it.”

 

Tooru’s mother only smiles sadly. Death isn’t the only way to break things, after all.

 

-

-

_“You know,” Tooru says, “you don’t owe me anything.”_

_Hajime scoffs. It’s been several years, now; the Oikawa family, save for their son, has long since passed. Hajime moves into their dingy house by the river. He spends his mornings in the rice-fields and his nights at Tooru’s bedside. Some days, however, he sneaks off._

_Searching, always searching, for that cruel, Seeing Lake._

_“I know, Tooru,” Hajime says. He grasps at Tooru’s hand, a familiar thing of bones and ill and bruises. “I know.”_

-

 

Let’s run away together, Hajime does not tell him. In another life, let’s run away together, far, far away from any damning curse, or fate.

 

-

 

**ii.**

**_the second life_ **

**_edo period, japan._ **

**_(17 th century)_ **

****

_-_

Oikawa Tooru is a scaredy-cat. He startles like a stray, and looks like one, too, with his tousled hair and saucer-eyes. As a child, Hajime befriends him warily, this seemingly brittle boy.

 

They meet on a warm morning in June. Hajime’s family had just moved into one of the _machiya_ dwellings in town, right next door to the Oikawa’s, whom Hajime’s parents have been acquainted with for ages.

 

 _Tooru’s mother is one of my dearest friends,_ Hajime’s mother had informed him earlier, _It’s so wonderful for us to reunite, like this. I hope you two will get along._

 

Hajime, in all his seven years, has never been one to disobey his mother. So he tries to speak gently, like he might for a girl, or something easily frightened.

 

“My name is Iwaizumi,” he says, arms crossed, heart hammering. “Iwaizumi Hajime.”

 

“I know,” Oikawa says, surprising Hajime with his forwardness. His takes on a sharp expression, which doesn’t match up with the wilted way he carries himself. “My mother already told me about your family.”

 

Hajime swallows uncomfortably. “Okay,” he says. They’re sitting in one of the side-rooms in the Iwaizumi house. A tray of biscuits and persimmons sits between them, untouched. Their mothers’ silver laughter can be heard from the other side of the door. “Want to play a game?”

 

Oikawa continues to study him. “What kind of game?”

 

Hajime takes in the other boy’s wispy disposition. “Um,” he begins. “There’s a lake at the border of town. We could go swimming.”

 

“I hate the water,” Oikawa snips, and Hajime resists the urge to slam his forehead against the snack-table. “It’s cold. Disgusting.”

 

He says is brattily, but his face is pinched, fearful. Hajime reasons that he might not know how to swim. He doesn’t push further.

 

“We could race.”

 

“That’s boring,” Oikawa tells him. His stare drops, when something else seems to catch his attention. “Ne, Iwa-chan?” he asks, suddenly excited.

 

Hajime stops cold. “What did you just call me?”

 

“ _Iwa-chan,_ ” Oikawa repeats, petulant. “What’s that?”

 

He’s pointing to something behind them. Hajime turns, taking note of the old, bamboo-shelf, and the books and mementos layered on top of it. The annoying nickname is temporarily forgotten.

 

“You like books?” he asks.

 

“Not those,” Oikawa says, standing. He sweeps past Hajime, and picks up something small and pointed. “Is this yours?”

 

It’s a wooden, practice-sword that belongs to Hajime’s father. He’d kept it for years, even after graduating his training, and Hajime’s mother had never once thought of tossing it away. Whenever he was gone for long periods of time, Hajime would sometimes pick it up, emulating the motions he’s seen his father gracefully overtake.

 

 _I want to be like him,_ Hajime had decided, years ago.

 

“Ne, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, prying a second, less-worn sword from the shelf. “Why don’t we spar?”

 

Oikawa’s fingers are shaking, with something Hajime cannot place. He’s only just met this boy, after all.

 

“Sure,” he says.

 

And a friendship blooms.

****

-

 

Things are different, after that. Good, but different.

 

Hajime and Oikawa become an inseparable, two-headed, four-legged entity, never apart for too long, never spotted away from the other. _Best friends._ They play together, and eventually study together, which makes for days nestled in their bedrooms, whining over afternoons wasted on calligraphy and arithmetic. The boys ignore the city-murmurs, the gossip. _The samurai are a dying breed. Who needs warriors, in this time of peace? Money, money, money. A waste of money, for their senseless power._

“We’ll be great,” Oikawa declares, once they begin their training. “We’ll be _warriors._ ”

 

The tepid boy from childhood slowly evolves to steel. Hajime sometimes struggles to catch up. He’d assumed, from the start, that it’d be his job to be Oikawa’s keeper. And for a long while it was true. He would be the one to fish their fallen swords out of ponds when they’d sparred. He was the one who would remind Oikawa to eat his vegetables, to sleep early, to clean his teeth. Oikawa had been something of a nuisance, or perhaps a bruise— one that Hajime had, against his better wishes, grown fond of.

 

Oikawa had always disliked the dark, but he loved the stars. Throughout the years, he would drag Hajime out at night to admire them amidst the town buildings, pointing at the patterns they would make, and asking Hajime what he saw. _A tree, a rabbit, an apple._ Hajime would often pick whatever would appease Oikawa. But sometimes, and only sometimes, he would see stories when he looked up at the moon-knotted sky. He would see the beauty, the promise, and it left him breathless, hyperaware of the boy beside him, who saw all of this in everything he glanced at, perhaps including people. _Perhaps, perchance— including Hajime._

 

-

-

 

Oikawa and Hajime’s fathers rarely visit home. They’re samurai, both of similar rank and station. Despite the lack of battles, their craft leaves them absent and often busy. Hajime’d never minded, but Oikawa takes it a bit harder. Hajime wonders, at times, if Oikawa’s father had ever been around at all, when Oikawa had first been growing up. Before he met Hajime, was it only Oikawa and his mother?

 

Where Hajime loves his father, Oikawa seems to loathe his. The spite does not surprise Hajime, but it doesn’t suit Oikawa, either. For all his sulking and spoiled tendencies, Oikawa is genuinely kind at times. He holds doors open for girls, pays for meals without Hajime asking. He gets along with most of the children in the city, who all look up to him and his talent for horse-riding, and swordsmanship. _A prince, a knight._ Oikawa is only ever cruel when he is afraid. Hajime cannot always fault him for it.

 

“They’re fine,” he tells Oikawa, one afternoon by the riverbank. “They’ll be back before we know it.”

 

Oikawa shrugs, infuriatingly elegant about it. “I know that.”

 

“And we,” Hajime promises, “will be safe, too. When we go out there. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

 

Oikawa’s eyes widen a fraction. But he only shrugs again.

_-_

_-_

The clearing at the edge of the city becomes their favorite place. A secret spot of sorts, where they linger for both work and play, for speaking and silence.

 

They’re set for their first mission, in a week. A simple scouting job— no frills. _No glory,_ Oikawa had whined.

 

Hajime doesn’t care. He’s buzzing with adrenaline, preemptive as it may be. Soon, he and Oikawa will be leaving the home they’ve come to know for the past decade. Soon, they’ll be _warriors._ Seventeen years old, and the entire world looks like a promise.

 

“I bet I can beat you, this time,” Oikawa challenges. “Want to see?”

 

They start the spar with their swords, but end up abandoning them for something more childish. Oikawa tackles Hajime with a _completely illegal move,_ and Hajime grunts, before reversing their positions, so it’s Oikawa who is pinned. His breathing goes shallow when he notices how Oikawa’s _yukata_ has unwound somewhat, exposing his pale throat. Hajime aches to kiss it, but resists, pulling away slowly.

“Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks, from below. When Hajime braves a look at him, he notices the challenge has yet to leave the other boy’s eyes.

 

 _Oh,_ he realizes, headily.

 

Then, Oikawa is prying him back down.

_-_

_-_

“Stupidkawa,” Hajime snarls. “You’re going to get both of us killed.”

 

“But we’re _stars_ , Iwa-chan~” Oikawa singsongs. “Iwaizumi Hajime and Oikawa Tooru of _Osaka,_ rising in the samurai ranks like dragons! Like smoke! The town-girls swoon, the boys stare up in envy and wonder! We’re the talk of the town. Two boy-kings—”

“Shut _up_.” Hajime groans into his hands. “You have to keep quiet. We’re supposed to keep watch, get leads on the enemy.”

 

“But it’s _boring_ ,” Oikawa whines. “We never get any _action_ , out in the damn mountains!”

 

“I’m sorry,” Hajime snaps, “that this expedition doesn’t satisfy your relentless need to play with death.”

 

It’s a pretty standard mission, after all. Keeping tabs on enemy camps along the mountain pass. Not too risky, not too dangerous. Not Oikawa’s style at all, apparently.

 

“I don’t want to _die,_ ” Oikawa tells him. “Then I wouldn’t be able to be with Iwa-chan!”

 

Hajime shrugs. “Then be careful, idiot.”

 

Oikawa glances at him then, a discerning look he’s cultivated over all the years Hajime’s known him. _Two boys, best friends, just like their mothers. Living side-by-side. Same academy, same marks. Same strengths. Partners. Companions. Together._ It’s a neat, cut-out life that sometimes drives Hajime insane. Oikawa in his life is such a standard happening, like rice in his bowl and water in the sea. It has the permanence of stone, of mountains.

 

Yet Hajime sleeps fitfully, haunted by a single dream. Oikawa is young in this vision, but also inexplicably ancient. He’s wandering somewhere, deep in the belly of an unnamable forest. Hajime watches this child-Tooru roam and roam, before he reaches a lake.

 

 _Iwa-chan,_ he says into the water. Hajime tries to answer, from his space in the dreamscape, but dream-Tooru does not hear. _Iwa-chan,_ says the vision, with Oikawa’s face. _Iwa-chan, don’t go._

 

I’m not going anywhere, he tries to tell the dream. But each and every time, the Oikawa of his sleep does not listen.

 

He drowns. He _drowns._

 

“—Iwa-chan?”

 

_Let’s run away together._

 

Hajime jolts from the reverie, turning to Oikawa, who is living, breathing beside him. His expression is questioning, and Hajime only sighs, wills the nightmares from his mind.

 

“It’s nothing,” he says, though he knows Oikawa does not believe him. “I promise,” he lies, right when the shower of enemy-marked arrows begins its descent.

 

**iii.**

**_the third life_ **

**_the floating world_ **

**_(ukiyo-e)_ **

****

 

The boy sprawled next to Hajime reeks of sake and perfume. Hajime wrinkles his nose in distaste, but ignores his presence otherwise. He orders a bowl of _udon._ The boy watches him hungrily.

 

“Do you want something?” Hajime asks, against his better judgment. “Do I know you?”

 

The boy laughs, then, gaudy and flirtatious. He leans forward, revealing an expanse of shoulder and collarbone, taut and pearl-skinned. “Do you want to?”

 

Hajime furrows his brow. “No,” he says, truthfully. “I don’t.”

 

“Why, then,” drawls the boy, “are you sitting all alone? In _Yoshiwara?_ Do you not seek any pleasure?”

 

The boy licks along the word _pleasure_ like fruit, or wine. Hajime shudders, his gut tightening with the beginnings of want. He studies the boy: broad, but slender. About Hajime’s age, with fawnish eyes and hair.

 

 _Beautiful,_ Hajime’s mind supplies, unnecessarily. _Familiar,_ it adds on, and he chokes back broth, as well as a blush.

 

“What’s your name?” he manages, at length. The boy must be a courtesan, and an expensive one to boot, judging from his clothing.

 

“Oikawa,” the boy tells him. “Oikawa Tooru.”

 

Hajime nods in acknowledgement. “Iwaizumi Hajime,” he says back, politely. Then, he takes another bite from his food.

 

“Say, Iwa-chan,” the boy— _Oikawa_ — lilts. Hajime almost chokes again at the sound of the awful nickname. “Have you ever heard of the myth?”

 

“What a vague question,” Hajime comments, snidely. “Which myth were you referring to, _Trashykawa?_ ”

 

Oikawa brightens. “About the man and his lover, in _Miyama,_ centuries ago.”

 

“I can’t say I have,” Hajime says around a mouthful of _udon._

 

“Well,” Oikawa starts. “There were two boys, who grew up together. Best friends, companions, whatever you may call them. Their names got lost in history, but their story dwelled on. When the boys were still young, one of them was spirited away in the forest, and vanished for three days and three nights. When he returned, he was drained of all his health and fortitude. But the other boy, his best friend, still remained by his side.”

 

“A love story,” Hajime says.

 

“A love story,” Oikawa affirms. “Anyway, they say the first boy, the one who disappeared, saw something he shouldn’t have in the forest. The gods made him sickly as punishment. But he never minded. Because he’d gotten what he’d wanted.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“The other boy,” Oikawa says, “remained by his side. Until old age, neither of them took a wife, or had children. They stayed together, in their backwater town, living and dying as companions, side by side.”

 

Hajime feels his neck prickle. _Phantom touch, phantom sensations._ “How is that a myth? It’s just a story.”

 

“Right?” Oikawa asks. “I was wondering, too. What did that boy see in the forest? Why was he punished? And—” Oikawa licks his plum-round lips. “Was the price he paid enough?”

 

Hajime tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

 

“I don’t think it ended, there,” Oikawa says simply. “I think the boy was cursed not for one lifetime, but all that would come after.”

 

“You don’t think they met again?” Hajime asks. “The two boys?”

 

“Who knows?” Oikawa grins, shifting closer. His breath fans along Hajime’s skin like mist. Hajime can almost taste him. “Who really knows, Iwa-chan?”

 

-

-

 

The night unfolds like so: cherry-silk sheets, coarse hands, the faint scent of persimmons. It’s almost romantic, the two of them bed-bound under the stars.

 

The first kiss is deep, searing, and goes straight to Hajime’s head. It’s a lover’s kiss, which is ridiculous, considering the two of them have just met. But even so, Hajime is absolutely gutted. His mind, rather than drift elsewhere, is caged into the moment, the _person:_ Oikawa is everywhere, yet Hajime can’t seem to reach enough of him.

 

“More,” he says, and Oikawa grins against his mouth. His hands snake beneath Hajime’s _yukata,_ tracing along the skin and muscle. Hajime runs his fingers down Oikawa’s spine, pressing their hips flush together.

 

Oikawa huffs, half-desire, half-laughter.

 

“Eager, aren’t we?”

 

Hajime smirks, and says, “Do you not seek _pleasure,_ Shittykawa?”

 

He pinches Oikawa somewhere low, and the other groans, before kissing Hajime again.

 

-

-

 

Hajime cards his fingers through Oikawa’s feathery hair, when all is said and done. The motion is familiar, a twist of muscle-memory. Oikawa’s naked arms are wrapped around Hajime’s side. Very gently, he whispers, “You have a scar.”

 

Hajime follows his line of vision. Muted, white marks, pointed as starbursts, form a constellation along Hajime’s chest.

 

“They’re birthmarks,” he tells him. “I’ve never been in any sort of war.”

 

“Birthmarks, death-lines,” Oikawa hums. “Aren’t they all the same?”

 

Hajime smiles, and moves to kiss Oikawa’s neck. _Familiar._

“You don’t have any? Scars, I mean?”

 

Oikawa laughs. “None that I can see, at least.”

 

-

-

 

**_iv._ **

**_the fourth life_ **

**_california, 1900_ **

****

“For the love of _god,_ ” Hajime says. “Would you stop _crying_?”

 

“I c-can’t help it,” whimpers the boy, curled up next to him. “I want to go home. I miss my family. I want to go home.”

 

Hajime sighs, at that, anger dissipating. Crybaby or not, this boy looks awfully lonesome.

 

“They didn’t come with you?” Hajime asks, tone more gentle, this time. “You’re here alone?”

 

This only makes the boy sob harder. “I’m supposed to live with my uncle. My mom and dad sold lots of their land to send me here. But I— I want to go back! It’s not the same! I can’t understand the street-signs and I’m hungry and I miss my parents. A-and my sister…and… _and…!”_

He begins to hiccup between bouts of crying, and Hajime awkwardly pats his back in comfort. They’re sitting at one of the docks of a tiny, seaside town. Most of the residents are Japanese immigrants, and so the design is a mix between Western and traditional. Hajime’s family’d moved here a couple years back. He guiltily recalls the nights he’d spent praying for a friend his age, not having expected it to turn out like this. He hadn’t meant to separate anyone from their family. Hajime’s not that selfish.

 

“I’m sorry,” Hajime murmurs, sincerely, and the boy leans into him, catlike and weeping. “It’ll get better, okay?” he offers, and the boy nods into the crook of his neck.

 

“I-I’m Oikawa,” the boy offers, between sniffles. “Oikawa Tooru.”

 

Hajime smiles. “I’m Iwaizumi Hajime.”

 

“T-that’s,” Oikawa says, “A funny name. _Iwa-chan_.”

 

“That’s not my name,” Hajime tries to scold him, but it lacks heart. “Are you feeling better?”

 

“A little,” Oikawa says, sheepishly. “Would you…”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Would you tell me a story?” Oikawa asks shyly. “My _onee-chan_ used to always tell me the best stories.”

 

“I’m not your sister.” Hajime scowls, and Oikawa giggles. He decides he likes the sound enough to relent, “But I know a good story. My grandmother told me this one, back home in Japan.”

 

“What’s it about? Don’t be stingy!”

 

“I’m _not,_ ” Hajime says. “Be patient. It’s about—” His ears go red. “It’s a love story. From ancient times. Legend says that there was a boy who loved another, and he asked the gods to see their future together.”

 

“Ooh,” says Oikawa. “I feel like I’ve heard this before.”

 

“From your sister?” Hajime asks, and Oikawa nods. He continues, “Well, the boy went out to the woods, in search of a mystic, seeing lake. If he found the hiding lake, it would grant him a peek of his future.

 

The boy and the boy he loved spent most of their childhood in search of this magic lake. But they never could find it. Then, one day, the boy wandered off on his own, and couldn’t be found for three nights. When he reappeared, he was ill and pale, and the boy he loved doted on him. It wasn’t until some time later that he admitted what he saw.”

 

Oikawa asks excitedly, “What did he see, Iwa-chan?”

 

“He saw,” Hajime starts, “a future where they weren’t together. So he tried to change it.”

 

“And?”

 

“The two became lovers,” Hajime whispers, “but they were cursed. For all the time to come.”

 

-

-

 

Weeks later, and Oikawa settles in like a native. Hajime is impressed by the other boy’s knack for belonging. _Adaptable,_ he thinks, _strong for a crybaby._

On a Thursday, they set up a volleyball net along the beach. The local aunties croon and tease, _Hajime’s finally found a friend!_ But he pays them no mind. Old Sakurai from the fish-market offers them some spears and netting free of charge, and Hajime makes ends meet with that.

 

Oikawa watches Hajime work with blatant fascination, and claps his palms together once everything is complete.

 

“What’s that?” Oikawa asks, moony-eyed.

 

“You’ve never played?” Hajime smirks, tossing Oikawa the rainbow-printed ball he’d received as a gift, for his past birthday. Oikawa, in a display of natural coordination, catches the ball with little fanfare.

 

“How does it work?” he asks, gaze sharpening.

 

“I’ll show you,” Hajime tells him. “Toss it back to me, alright?”

 

-

-

 

They start school in September, with Oikawa’s uncle filling out registration forms during the last edges of summer. _Mizumi Academy_ is a tiny, crowded institution built along the seaside. It’s run by Haruno-sensei, a man in his late fifties, who moved to the mainland from _Hawaii_ several decades ago, after meeting his wife, Rosemarie _._ Rosemarie is an American woman with hair like a sunflower. She’s a nice lady, with surprisingly good Japanese; sometimes, she even brings them cakes and lemonade during class-time. Hajime likes her well enough, but Oikawa seems _enchanted._

 

“Rosemarie said it’d be a good idea to make a volleyball team!” he exclaims. “Doesn’t that sound fun, Iwa-chan?”

 

It does. And they _do_. Everyone’s families pitch in; the school buys a real net with the funds, and multiple volleyballs. The chattering aunties begin to sew uniforms together, in their spare time. No one is more delighted than Oikawa, who lights up like a galaxy whenever volleyball is involved. He practices out on the beach for hours on end, dragging Hajime out along with him every time.

 

“Leave me alone, dumbass!” Hajime would growl, but they both knew better than to believe he meant it.

 

“Catch, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa would sing, and Hajime, ever soft, ever enamored, with this sniffling, yet brave, dreamer of a boy, would always relent.

 

-

-

A year passes. Then two, then five. Day in and day out, life is the same— June-warm, beachy, balmed with sun and sweat and water.

 

But when Hajime turns sixteen, everything changes.

 

It happens on a beautiful morning. The horizon is pink with sunrise. The sand is glimmering white. Hajime and Oikawa are roaming beside each other, keeping a careful distance from the ocean. Every so often, their hands brush, sending a jolt down Hajime’s spine. He breathes in hoarsely— inhale, exhale.

 

But then Oikawa leans in, his face less than an inch from Hajime’s.

 

“Iwa-chan,” he murmurs.

 

The kiss is slow. Charged. Oikawa tastes like the tea he’d had for breakfast, sweet with sugar and honey. Hajime shuts his eyes, and the memories turn like a kaleidoscope. _Him and Oikawa graduating middle school. Him and Oikawa sending glass, message-filled bottles to sea. The two of them tasting peanut butter for the first time. The two of them spending the week sick with measles. Mizumi Academy playing volleyball against the American school, across town. Oikawa tearing up when they won. Hajime wanting to hold his hand. Wanting to kiss him._

Hajime kisses him now, the emotions surging like a vice. _I’m so glad you came here. I’m so glad we met._ Hajime doesn’t know what to do with himself, with his lips, with his hands. They roam, across Oikawa’s smooth, tanned face, his bony shoulders. He’s taller than Hajime now, no longer the skinny, ragged crybaby from years ago.

 

And so, Oikawa has to lean down, when he whispers, in the shell of Hajime’s ear:

 

“…I’m going back.” His voice is jagged. A rasp, a croak. Hajime’s world topples over. “Home— _Japan.”_ He says ‘home’ in English, and _Japan_ like he’s saying _the moon_. “My father— he. It was so sudden. My mom is alone. I’m so sorry. Iwa— _Hajime._ I have to go back. _I’m so, so,_ sorry—”

 

-

-

 

_I love you._

 

-

-

 

 _We’ll meet again_ , Hajime doesn’t say. _I’ll find you. You’re from Miyagi? I was, too. We’ll meet again, eat satsumas and persimmons under a cherry-blossom tree. I’ll bring peanut butter and lemon-bars. I’ll find you. I’ll find you. Like the doomed lovers in Miyama, I’ll find you—_

 

-

-

 

**v.**

**_the fifth life_ **

**_tokyo, 1960’s_ **

****

Hajime is not a whimsical boy by nature. But sometimes, in bouts of personal, character-rebellion, he does some strangely whimsical things.

 

For example: one evening, after working late at the factory, rather than stopping by the market to pick up extra rice for dinner, he finds himself in one of the small, local consignment-shops near his family’s apartment. He is immediately humbled by the sight splayed before him: knick-knacks and keepsakes stacked like a castle on the shelves.

 

His parents could never afford to buy him many toys, so his possessions are sparse and few. He’s never been one for glimmering or twinkly things, but today, on this warm, rain-soaked April afternoon, he is drawn to a tinny, silver box. He opens it gingerly, expecting to find a set of combs, or a mirror inside. Instead, a light, melodic song begins to play once the lid is up halfway. In the center, a figurine clad in mint twirls to the song. It smells oddly of persimmons.

 

“Ah,” says the shopkeeper, from behind him. “You found one of my favorites.”

 

Hajime shuts the music-box nervously, but the shop-keeper— a woman in her late thirties— gestures for him to open it again. He obliges, and the haunting music returns. Hajime is entranced by the dancing figure. It looks like a little boy.

 

“My nephew loved this thing,” the woman comments. “He kept trying to beg it off of me. I promised to give it to him for his tenth birthday. But…” She laces her hands together sadly. “Some things just cannot be controlled.”

 

Hajime is only fourteen years old, but he knows a thing or two about death. His _obaa-san_ died just this summer, and his mother cried and cried and cried. Hajime felt teary as well, even though he had never been close with his grandmother. But even so, it still made him sad.

 

A boy dying as a boy is different than someone passing in old age. Hajime says sincerely, “I’m sorry.”

 

The shopkeeper blinks, as if startled by his manners. “Oh. Of course. Tooru— he…. He was a bright thing. Like a starburst on legs. Charming kid. Good at sports. Loved volleyball. He would’ve been your age, now.”

 

“Maybe we could’ve been friends,” Hajime offers, shyly.

 

“I bet you would,” the woman says, smiling now. “Two good boys. Two good friends.”

 

The music box continues to play. Hajime turns back to watch the tiny dancer, spinning on, and on, and on.

 

-

-

 

When Hajime makes it home, that night, he places his new gift inside the chest at the foot of his bed. He feels guilty, like he’s hiding something. _This could be rice-money,_ his mind tells him. _This could help pay for okaa-san’s bad knee._ But it feels too special not to keep. The music-box. The boy-dancer.

 

Hajime winds it up, once, to listen to before he sleeps. The song strikes him somewhere deep, somewhere raw. He doesn’t understand it. He feels his eyes water.

 

Quietly, he says, “ _Tooru_.”

 

-

-

 

**vi.**

**_the sixth life_ **

**_modern-day japan_ **

****

-

-

 

“So, you’re going to different colleges?”

 

Hajime practically chokes on a bite of _sukiyaki;_ he lets out a throaty cough before grappling for a glass of water. He drinks furiously, feeling three pairs of eyes hone in on him from across the table.

 

“Iwa-chan,” says Oikawa, from beside him. “Are you alright?

 

 _If you would stop staring at me,_ he thinks, ruefully, setting down his water. Scowling at Oikawa, he says, “Peachy.”

 

To illustrate his point, he stabs his chopsticks into the steaming hotpot, emerging with a large piece of carrot. It’s chopped into the shape of a flower, courtesy of Oikawa’s incessant whining— _Sukiyaki has to be pretty! What’s the point otherwise?—_ and Hajime swallows it without chewing. The broth is scalding on his tongue but he ignores it; Oikawa’s unyielding gaze is much more distressing.

 

“Woah, woah,” Matsukawa says. “I didn’t mean to step on a nerve.”

 

“More like a _landmine,_ Mattsun,” Hanamaki supplies.

 

Oikawa says nothing all the while; he just continues to study Hajime from the corner of his eye. The sensation is prickling, unsettling. Hajime has always known Oikawa’s focus to be terrifying. But now, he’s at the center of it. And there’s no escaping.

 

From his periphery, Hajime is dimly aware of Matsukawa getting up, and disappearing into the kitchen. He returns less than a minute later, a round, glass bottle in his grasp.

 

He says, “We have to do this at least once.”

 

Hanamaki smiles a little. “Where’d you manage to get that?”

 

“Parents,” Matsukawa tells him. “They’re out of town, and never lock the sake cabinet.”

 

Oikawa finally speaks, and it’s to say, “How cliché, Mattsun.”

 

“You’re a cliché,” Hajime says, without thinking.

 

Oikawa blinks at him, before his expression melds into something soft, a touch unfamiliar. “Takes one to know one, Iwa-chan.”

 

Hanamaki makes a gagging noise. “If you two are done undressing each other with your eyes,” he starts, “then can we please get on with this?”

 

“But of course, m’lady,” Matsukawa says, doling out the sake. “You don’t need to ask twice.”

 

 

-

-

 

It bad was an idea— no. Hajime rearranges the words in his murky head. _It was a bad idea._ There, better.

 

The springtime wind is cool at this time of night. The gales stream past, and Hajime stumbles, his footing unsteady. Oikawa is faring marginally worse, on the count that he’s mumbling to himself. Hajime catches some mention of the moon, which is typical.

 

They silently agree not to amble home just yet. The walk is eerily quiet despite the tension. They pass by a still-open antique shop, and Hajime notes the dusty music box at the crux of the window-display. _Pretty,_ he thinks, absently.

 

He unconsciously lets Oikawa take the lead, which is a mix of instinct and habit. Oikawa halts once they’ve made it to their neighborhood, then makes a stilted turn, and Hajime, despite his bleariness, knows where they’re headed.

 

They stop at an old, empty park. A tiny lake— or perhaps a pond— sits undisturbed in the bed of green and moonlight. Oikawa sighs, long and low, and crouches by the brink of the water. Hajime follows. They sit shoulder to shoulder.

 

In a dreamlike tone, Oikawa whispers, “Won’t you come with me, Iwa-chan?”

 

Hajime falters. After a pause, he says, “Your alcohol tolerance is absolute shit, dumbass.”

 

“I’m not…” Oikawa gives a telltale hiccup. “Drunk. I’m being serious right now.”

 

“No, you aren’t,” Hajime argues. “Because you’d never ask me that.”

****

_You’re playing dirty,_ Hajime wants to say. _It isn’t fair._

“Then,” Oikawa says, “tell me not to go. Please— I. You know I won’t go if you tell me not to.”

 

“Stop that,” Hajime nearly barks. “Oikawa— don’t. Don’t do this to me. I can’t…”

 

“Can’t _what?_ ” Oikawa asks. His voice is slurred. “Stay? Leave? Iwa-chan, this—” He gestures between them. “Is killing me. Tell me it’s killing you like it’s killing me.”

 

A beat. And then: “…It’s killing me like it’s killing you.” He swallows. “Of _course_ it would, you _idiot_.”

 

Oikawa shudders, full-body. Hajime hates himself for relishing it. “Then why do I have to go on my own?”

 

“Oikawa…” Hajime tries to shift closer, but realizes they’re already touching, from waist to knee. “We won’t be that far from each other. We’ll still be us.”

 

“Us,” Oikawa says. “What does that mean, anyway?”

 

“…Huh?”

 

“What if you’re wrong?” Oikawa asks. “What if these…these four years. What if we need them? What if we’re going to miss something?”

 

“Oikawa, you’re not making sense—”

 

“I love you,” Oikawa says, and it’s wet, tear-thick. Hajime freezes. “I’ve known… for so long, Iwa-chan. I don’t know why I waited until now to say it. But— the time. Why does it feel like we’re running _out—_ ”

 

Hajime’s muddled thoughts piece together into one, simple command: _move._ Move in, move as close as possible— he tilts his head, despite the awkward angle, and breathes the moon-cold air from Oikawa’s lips. Someone lets out a strangled sound— it’s all too hazy for Hajime to discern.

 

Then, there’s a kiss. It’s a chaste thing, swift and tender, but Hajime pours in every emotion, every piece of him that has belonged to Oikawa for all this time. He brings up a hand to Oikawa’s cheek, while Oikawa’s fingers brush at his nape. When he pulls back, his vision is blurry, partly white. Oikawa stares up at him, pupils blown.

 

“We’re not,” Hajime promises, “running out of time.” _I love you, I love you, I love you._ “Okay? We have all the time in the world.”

 

-

-

 

Hajime wakes up wanting to die. Which is putting it lightly.

 

His head pounds, and his eyes are blaring; every glimpse of light in his bedroom is practically a criminal offense. He hears a groan, feels the bed creak, and realizes someone— _Oikawa—_ is sleeping beside him. Or— _was_ sleeping.

 

Oikawa grumbles, “Iwa-chan,” and slowly sits up. Hajime does the same.

 

“…Good morning,” he offers, at length, trying not to blush over Oikawa’s bare arms and chest. _We’ve seen each other like this a thousand times._ Why should it be any different now?

 

“—Hajime!” crows a voice from downstairs. Hajime rubs at his temple, and calls back:

 

“Yes, mom?”

 

“I’m going out to buy some groceries!” she says. “Anything you need?”

 

Hajime glances once at Oikawa before saying, “No.”

 

He hears her sniff loudly. “Did Tooru come over last night? His shoes are in the foyer. They’re sopping wet.”

 

“Tooru’s here,” Hajime says, and for some reason, it seems meaningful. “He’s with me now.”

 

“That’s fine! Behave, then; I’ll be back soon,” calls his mother, and then they hear the front door slam shut.

 

Another spell of silence passes. It’s neither awkward nor comfortable. It’s— fraught. _Wanting._

 

“Are you up for breakfast?” Hajime asks. “I think there’s some food downstairs.”

 

 _How unromantic._ Hajime almost cringes. But Oikawa just smiles at him— that rare, pure smile— and says, “Sure.”

 

They end up eating fruit and childish, colorful cereal, both of them too exhausted to bother with cooking after the Hotpot & Sake Incident of the night before. Oikawa is still without a shirt, but Hajime slips into an old, sleep-jersey on his way down. The whole ordeal is oddly domestic, even though they’ve had similar mornings in the past. _Kind of._

 

Hajime decides his nerves are going too far when Oikawa offers him a slice of persimmon and he flushes scarlet. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ he wonders.

 

They eat without saying much. Hajime downs some aspirin and Oikawa takes some gratefully. Just when their allotted Deflecting Time ™ is about to run its course, Oikawa clears his throat, and begins:

 

“Iwa-chan—”

 

But Hajime is already blurting, “I love you, too.”

 

Oikawa balks, taken aback, and—hopeful? Hajime watches the other boy bite his bottom lip red. He longs to kiss him. So he decides to take the plunge, and let everything out:

 

“I don’t think I told you last night,” Hajime explains. “But I do. For a long time— I. I’ve been the same. It’s been a long time for me, too.”

 

The world doesn’t tilt on its axis, when he says it. The roof doesn’t cave in. But Oikawa beams at him, then, the emotion reaching up into his eyes, and it’s like winning a hundred sets, a thousand games. It’s so plain and simple and yet Hajime is shaken, somewhere in his core. _We aren’t some grand, star-crossed story. We’re better. The two of us are even better._

 

 

-

-

 

They spend the afternoon playing video-games, and snacking on the potato-chips Hajime’s mother brings from the grocery store.

 

Oikawa is curled up against him, complaining about how Hajime is cheating, how there’s no way he’s winning fair and square. Hajime just laughs, combing through Oikawa’s messy hair. It’s like second nature. The smell of dinner wafts in from the kitchen. Hajime would give anything to keep the day from ending.

 

“Say, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa murmurs, putting his controller down. The game is paused.

 

“Mm?”

 

“You said you’ve liked me a long time, right?” he asks.

 

No use in denying it now. “I have,” Hajime answers.

 

“What if I said that I’ve liked you longer?”

 

“How’re we supposed to measure that, Shittykawa?”

 

“I mean,” Oikawa says. “There was a time before we met, right? But I feel like— I knew you then, too. If that makes sense.”

 

Weirdly enough, it just might. “Oh?”

 

“I don’t know if it really happened,” Oikawa tells him. “Or if I’m just remembering wrong, because it’s been such a long time. But I— before we met. I remember dreaming a lot. They’d be weird dreams, in a bunch of different places. An ancient lake and cabin. A beach in America. An apartment in Kyoto.”

 

The hairs rise on the back of Hajime’s neck. But he doesn’t let go of Oikawa. Doesn’t look away. He feels a ghost of something, some _one_ , parting through him. Rather than ignore it, he embraces the chill, the permanence of it.

 

“Yeah?” he says.

 

“No matter where I was,” Oikawa goes on, “there was always a boy there with me. _Hajime_.”

 

_It was always you._

Hajime hums, says nothing. He closes his eyes, flirts with the idea. _Dreams, souls, lovers._ How strangely they all connect.

 

“You know,” Oikawa says. “People always say it’s wrong. To choose something so you can be with someone else. College. A job. But what’s so bad about that? What’s the problem? Why can’t I want to spend that time with you?”

 

His tone is calm, this time around. Serene.

 

“But,” Oikawa whispers. “I think you’re right. I don’t think our time is up, just yet.”

 

Hajime cracks one eye open. “Didn’t you hear me the first time, Assikawa?”

 

“Which first time?” Oikawa lilts.

 

“We have all the time in the world,” says Hajime. “The _universe._ Your ass believes in aliens. You should be able to accept this much.”

 

At that, Oikawa laughs his windchime laugh. “Promise me, Iwa-chan?”

 

 _(Anything,_ Hajime thinks, _I’ll do anything.)_

 

“Promise.”

 

-

-

( _And so the two doomed lovers ran and ran from fate. Always finding each other. Always parting. Always meeting, again, and again, and again.)_

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the biggest hugest most ENORMOUS thank-you to [morning](http://archiveofourown.org/users/morning), who held my hand through this entire arduous ordeal lol. this took me ages, considering it's my longest oneshot to date, and i hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> i tried to be as historically accurate as possible! i'm aware that the edo-period had a distinct lack of bloodshed compared to previous shogunates/empires, but there were some battles that did lead to casualties around the 17th century. and as for the tokyo lifetime in the 1960s... you can assume the worst, as to why their lifetime didn't spill into the modern day one ;A;
> 
> basically thank you so so much for reading, any comments are appreciated. ♡


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